


Regina Magna

by shuofthewind



Series: Pugna Pro Insons Insontis [3]
Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Bechdel Test Pass, F/M, Gen, Historical References
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-23
Updated: 2015-01-24
Packaged: 2018-02-18 11:19:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2346587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shuofthewind/pseuds/shuofthewind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Or, the Great Queen. It’s August 1892, a year after the Zodiac Case, and Elizabeth and Ciel are still hanging on tenterhooks. But when Ran-Mao crashes in through Lizzy’s window one night to tell her Lau has been kidnapped, things get a whole lot messier. Ave atque vale. LizzyCiel. Sequel to Domina Esques.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. His Partner, Off-Guard

Lizzy felt the bullet crease her ear, and swore.

At seven AM on a Sunday, it stood to reason that Covent Garden would be quiet. Obviously, though, it wasn’t. It might not have been packed, like it was on a normal day, but there were most certainly people here. Flower girls and orange sellers, who had been setting up their stalls before the pistols had started shouting; beggars; street urchins; pickpockets; tradesmen with their heavy boxes. They’d all run screaming for cover, and now Lizzy had the possibility of civilian casualties on her hands.

Her ear throbbed. Blood trickled down her throat. Lizzy pressed her back against the stack of heavy boxes—they smelled like flour, or dust—and weighed her options. No sword—she’d left that at home, because beggar boys didn’t carry swords. A pistol, out of bullets. A viper, wrapped tight around her left arm, but what good could Emily do against seven, no matter how venomous? At least her hat was still perched on her head. If it fell off and revealed her hair now, she had no idea what she would do.

Granted, she _was_ surrounded. If they didn’t know who she was, she’d eat her cap.

Lizzy crammed her cap tighter onto her head. Her legs were burning. She’d been sprinting since Leicester Square, and she’d already slipped and fallen twice before she’d managed to fling herself behind this stack of boxes and wait for her doom. She heaved for breath, and set a hand at the base of her throat. _Think. Think!_ Seven pursuers, four armed. One of them she’d at least managed to clip, she thought, because there was a steady stream of cursewords from the other side of her crates, and one set of footsteps wasn’t nearly so steady as the others. Other than that, though, they were armed and ready, and she was bleeding and exhausted and bulletless.

Well, that settled it, then. Ciel was going to kill her.

A second revolver went off. Lizzy bit her tongue hard—Emily had squeezed her arm, painfully tight—and shrank down beneath the crates. There was a gap between the planks, and through it she could see the ringleader, a revolver held high above his head. He’d shot directly into the air. There was an awful set of scratches down his cheek. Lizzy wiped the blood from her fingernails, and looked over her shoulder again. The south exit was twenty feet and a million kilometers away.

“I know you’re in here,” he said, and lowered his gun slowly. “D’you hear me, you stupid bitch? _I know you’re in here_!” Spit flew from his lips, mixed with blood from where she’d bitten him. Her mouth still tasted like his sour gin. Raph Harbottle had been so very unhappy to find that the boy he thought he’d been kissing was a girl, and the girl had teeth and nails to go with her acid tongue. _Think_ , she told herself. _Think._ “Y’can’t hide from me!”

Down at one end of the courtyard was the Punch and Judy stall. She could see one of the puppeteers cowering behind the curtains. He looked ready to run. His eyes met hers across the courtyard, and she jerked her hand across her throat, shaking her head. She thought she heard him whimper. Then another shot ran out, and Lizzy squealed in spite of herself as wood splintered near her shoulder. Her ear was throbbing. Blood pooled in the hollow of her throat.

“ _I’ll teach y’t’steal from me, you stupid whore_!”

 _So polite_. She peeped over the top of the box again. The men had spread out. Lizzy drew a breath, let it out, and crept closer to the edge of the box stack. Three steps. Two. In her sleeve, Emily hissed. There was a man on the other side of her stack of flour crates, whip-thin and stubbled. She hadn’t seen him before last night, when he’d dragged her kicking and screaming into the whorehouse on Talbot Street. _Naughty boy, asking so many questions about the Angel Raphael_ , he’d hissed in her ear, and she’d kicked him so hard in the crook of the legs that he’d nearly fainted.

“I don’t like angels,” she’d told him, just before the other three had come down on her head.

He came around the edge of her crates, and Lizzy sprung. She seized the man by the collar of his jacket and had him on the cobblestones before he could suck in a breath. In the next instant, his revolver was in her hand—left hand, her right was still acting funny—and she’d fired. Raph howled as the bullet found its mark, just above his kneecap, and as his men turned to flank him, Lizzy fired again, and again.

She was out and in the swell of humanity that was London before any of them had stirred more than a few feet across the cobblestones.

She was nearly in Russell Square, near the British Museum, before she could finally bring herself to stop. She’d left the stolen revolver in a rubbish heap six blocks from the marketplace, and stolen a cloak off of a washing line two blocks after that. Now, she pulled the hood up over her head and settled on the steps beneath the right-hand lion, tucking her feet up neatly under her. It was still too early for policemen to come to hurry her along, thankfully—even bobbies had to sleep sometimes—so she settled in. Humidity clung to her skin like ashes. She took a few breathless gulps of air, nearly threw up, and then leaned back against the stone to examine her prize.

She still wasn’t quite sure as to how the Queen had come to hear about a petty information peddler and human trafficker at the docks. To be frank, Lizzy wasn’t really sure how Victoria came by half of the information she seemed to possess. She suspected John Brown, in all honesty—anyone that quiet had to be up to no good. The fact remained, however, that Raphael Harbottle, also known as the Angel Raphael, paedophile, sodomite, and all-around boor, had been the London end of a chain that stretched across Europe to funnel desperate young women—and men, for that matter—into London, into addiction, and into sexual slavery.

“My dear,” Victoria had said, when Lizzy had risen from her deep curtsy, “I _would_ give this to one of my butlers, but they’re all off on other assignments. As you seem to have a particular…” she’d groped for a word. “A powerful vendetta against these sorts of men, I rather thought you would be the best suited to carry out an investigation for me.”

Her task had been simple. Proof that Raph Harbottle was less innocent than he appeared to be. If possible, to find an identity for some of his backers. And here they were: papers and photographs, all tied up in twine. Ships and suppliers. Monetary transactions. A booklet of pornographic images that made the hair on the back of her neck stand up. Lizzy made a mental note to _not_ show that one to Victoria. She’d done her job.

Now she just had to wait.

As it turned out, she only had to go over the papers for twenty minutes before a low whistle caught her attention, and Phipps flicked his fingers at her. He walked past, turning the corner. Lizzy waited thirty seconds before standing, brushing the dust off her backside, and following him to a carriage parked at the end of the lane. She clambered into it without assistance. Grey, thank God, was nowhere in sight. Usually Phipps went nowhere without Grey, but once she and Grey had had a knock-down drag-out saber match in the fencing hall at Buckingham Palace, and Grey had lost, he had refused to be in the same room as her. That left Phipps.

Lizzy didn’t mind. Phipps was much more tolerable than Grey was. At the very least, he didn’t make her want to punch him in the nose every other word.

“You all right, Lady Middleford?” Phipps touched a fingertip to the space beneath his own ear, as if in sympathy. “Looks nasty.”

“Only a scrape.” She handed over the papers. Charles Phipps only gave them a perfunctory glance before setting them on the carriage seat next to him, and nodding. In her sleeve, Emily shifted, and loosened her grip, just slightly. Snake had set Emily on her nearly three weeks ago, and to this day Lizzy wasn’t quite certain as to why. At least it meant that anyone who tried to stick his hands inside her clothes would get one nasty surprise. “Harbottle’s wounded. He may try some of the local hospitals, if he’s stupid enough.”

Emily brushed her nose against Lizzy’s jugular, and without thinking about it, Lizzy put her fingers up for the snake to nudge. Phipps’ eyes dropped to her throat, and then he met her gaze again.

“Thanks for this,” he said, and patted the papers. “We’ll be able to get him, now.”

Lizzy nodded. “How is she?”

Phipps’ mouth thinned. He tapped the top of the carriage with the pommel of his sword, and with a rattle, the cab started to move. “You know I have to say I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

“And you know that I _know_ you’re keeping her. You and Grey.” She clenched her hands into fists on her thighs, and realized with a sting that one of her knuckles was split. “We always have this argument, and you always end up telling me, so just—please tell me if she’s doing better. Please?”

Phipps looked at her for an impenetrable moment. Then he sighed. “She hasn’t tried to slit her wrists for six months. It’s…She’s improving. Slowly.”

She nodded, and stroked Emily’s back. The viper curled tighter around her throat. “Is she still having nightmares?”

Phipps lifted one shoulder in a shrug that could have meant anything. Lizzy bit her tongue. It had been a stupid question anyway. Of course Felicity was having nightmares. She’d been corrupted by the blood of a fallen angel; she’d killed her own father, watched her brother die. Of course she would still be having nightmares.

“If she is,” Phipps said suddenly, “she’s said nothing about them to me. I’m her captor, not her friend.”

He turned his face to the window. Lizzy, studying his profile, wondered: _Are you, though? Are you really?_ Then she cleared her throat. “I know you can’t take written messages to her,” she said, “but—but if you see her, and she seems…able to handle it, can you tell her I said hello?”

Phipps glanced at her again, his eyes darting from her dirty face to her bloody throat to the snake in the collar of her shirt. Then he nodded. They rode in silence for a while, through the city towards Fleet Street, where Paula, Michael, and a change of clothes awaited her. Eventually, Phipps cleared his throat.

“Phantomhive’s on his way back from Durham.”

She snapped to attention. Lizzy searched his face—for the life of her, she’d never been able to read either of the Double Charles—and then she nodded, once. “I know,” she said. “Snake sent me a message. He said it ended well.”

“As well as it could have, considering.” Phipps swiped a hand over his jaw. He hadn’t shaved this morning, not yet at least. She could hear the rasp from across the carriage. “He should be arriving by the three o’clock train into King’s Cross.”

Lizzy frowned. “Why are you telling me this? I don’t usually meet him at the station.”

Phipps shifted in his seat. Then he reached into his doublet, and drew out an envelope of heavy paper. It had Victoria’s wax seal still warm on the back. “You’re to give him this,” he said, and Lizzy took it and turned it over. “If that’s a problem, I can handle it, but Her Majesty did say that it was to be you.”

 _Bad news, then_. Victoria did like to package bad news in pretty wrapping. “There’s no problem,” Lizzy said, and she set the envelope aside before she could get blood on it. “I’ll meet him there.”

Phipps nodded, and lapsed back into silence for the rest of the journey. He reminded her of Michael in some ways, she thought. Quiet and steady. An odd sort, but not the bad kind. On occasion, she even liked him. Today was not one of those days.

He dropped her at the inn on Fleet Street just as the clocks began to chime seven-thirty. Lizzy had clambered back out of the cab and was about to slink off to the servant’s entrance when Phipps leaned forward, out of the window. “Lady Middleford,” he said, and when she turned, he nodded at her, once. “Good luck.”

Lizzy blinked at him. Before she could say anything, Phipps rapped the top of the carriage, and the cab had trundled away down muddy Fleet Street. The Temple Church bells rang. Lizzy stroked the viper again, and then turned towards the inn, a bath, and Paula.

* * *

Breakfast in the Middleford household was served at seven, sharp, so when Elizabeth wandered into the dining room at the Mayfair house at nearly nine, the only thing left was chilly coffee and even chillier toast. She smeared it with jam anyway, ignoring the look of horror that Dawson (yet another new maid; her mother couldn’t keep them on to save her life) sent her, and made herself drink two mugs of coffee before deeming herself presentable, or, at least, awake enough to speak. She’d fallen asleep twice in the bathtub at the Fleet Street rooms; she would have to take a nap once she managed to get Ciel back into his Mayfair household. _No rest for the wicked_ , she thought, and stuck her toast in her mouth so she could open the door to her room again. Her mother would throw a fit if she learned that Lizzy was eating toast at her desk again, but her ear was hurting too much for Lizzy to really care.

“Lizzy!”

It was Edward. His hair was mussed, his shirt was sweat-stained, and he was carrying a sword over his shoulder—premiere evidence of fencing with Mama. Lizzy made a face at him over her toast, and yelped when she bit through it. Edward lunged and caught the thing before it landed jam-side down on the carpet, and made a face. “What on earth are you doing? You weren’t at breakfast.”

“I was working,” she said, and took the toast back from him. The coffee wasn’t doing much to help the headache that was building in the back of her skull. Emily tightened around her throat, and then settled again. “I was out late. What are you doing?”

“This and that.” His eyes caught on her ear. Bless him, though: he didn’t mention it, even if his hands went stiff. “I’m going to assume I’m not supposed to ask.”

“Probably not,” she said. Lizzy leaned back against the doorjamb. God, but she was so _tired_ today. She’d rinsed her mouth out what must have been a thousand times, but she could still taste Raph Harbottle’s gin. “Oh—Ciel comes back today.”

Edward made a face. “Do you have to tell me that? I _was_ hungry a moment ago. Now you’ve put me off food entirely.”

“Oh, don’t be so grumpy, Edward, it hasn’t been so bad the past year.” And in all actuality it hadn’t been; even before she’d left for her trip to Calcutta with Paula, Ciel had been keeping his distance. Lizzy lifted a hand to her collar, where the old engagement ring hung in the hollow of her throat. She hadn’t taken it off since he’d given it to her the second time. It hadn’t parted from her skin once since then.

Ed sighed. “So? When are we to expect his imperialness to grace London with his presence? Don’t look at me like that—you know, otherwise you wouldn’t have said anything.”

“I’m to meet him at King’s Cross at three,” she told him. “Queen’s orders. I have a note to give him.”

Edward scowled. “She could have sent someone else.”

“If she had,” Lizzy said tartly, “she wouldn’t be the queen.” She took her toast back from him, bussed his cheek (Emily hissed, but did nothing) and then disappeared into her room, snapping the door shut behind her. The note Phipps had given her was lying bold as brass on her desk.

King’s Cross Station smelled of garbage and coal and steam. August in London meant light dresses and even lighter petticoats, but the trains all ran on steam, and by the time she’d been there ten minutes she was slick to the skin in sweat. It was a miracle that Emily hadn’t just fallen off her to the floor of the platform, she was so soaked. Lizzy fanned her face with one of her trick fans, pretending that she wasn’t flushed red as an apple, and glanced over at Paula. She wasn’t sure if it was Paula’s blood or just her sheer stubbornness, but even in Calcutta, Paula had never seemed to break a single sweat. Her hair curled a little, though. Lizzy wondered if she was a bad mistress for appreciating the fallibility.

“Three minutes, miss,” said Paula, catching Lizzy’s eye. Lizzy nodded. The clock on the platform was almost fully obscured by the dragon’s-breath of a train in from Cambridge, which had just rolled in on the opposite side of the platform. The whole place felt foggy. 

“Right.” She could only hope the wax seal on Victoria’s letter wouldn’t melt before then.

Lizzy sighed, and fought off the urge to pace. This wasn’t exactly the first time she’d seen Ciel since her return from Bengal. He’d attended a surprising amount of season parties this year. Not only that, but Victoria seemed to delight in shoving the pair of them together when Lizzy least expected it. She still wasn’t quite certain what Her Majesty was planning—perhaps a second engagement; it sounded like Victoria’s style—but it was, for the most part, unappreciated by both parties. Ciel always looked a little pained, though not, she thought, because he was near her.

At least, she hoped not.

He had kept his word, though. She had told him she needed time—to breathe, to grieve, to grow—and he had stayed away. He hadn’t sought her out, not once; there had been no letters, no messages, no ravens in the night. When she’d felt up to it, she’d penned him letters—long ones, full of her own private thoughts, her considerations, her worry. She kept them locked in a drawer in her desk at home. 

Her heart clenched in her chest. Lizzy pressed a hand to her ribs, drawing as deep a breath as she dared with her stays laced so tight. Sweat dribbled down the back of her neck into her gown. When she looked up at the clock face, the steam had cleared enough for her to make out the time. _2:59._

Down the platform, a conductor whistled. The air picked up. Lizzy put a hand to her hat as the 3:00 train from Durham snarled its way into King’s Cross Station. Paula stepped closer to her, worrying the hems of her gloves.

“Are you all right, Miss Lizzy?”

Lizzy smiled a little, and touched Paula’s elbow. “I’m fine. Don’t worry, Paula.”

Paula pressed her lips together for a moment, but nodded, and fixed Lizzy’s hat without further comment.

She hadn’t been sure whether or not Ciel would be in first class. If she knew him at all, he _would_ be at the far back of the train, luxuriating; but then again, he’d done quite a lot of things for Her Majesty that hadn’t involved luxury at all, and she hadn’t wanted to destroy his disguise, if he was wearing one. So she stood to the side and waited, watching as the other passengers tromped by her, vanishing like wraiths into the steam. It was, of course, Emily who noticed them first; she squeezed Elizabeth’s neck one and then slithered down into her bodice, over her corset, twined down her leg, and onto the floor to greet Snake. The sunlight caught the sheen of Snake’s hair like a coin; he ducked his head a little at the sight of her, a smile tugging at his lips, and bowed before standing to the side.

Sebastian was next. Dark, dark, dark—his dried-blood eyes met hers and the corners of his mouth turned up in that Mona Lisa smile. He swept her an elegant bow, ignoring the porter. “My lady,” he said. Something twisted in her guts, and she wasn’t quite sure if it was fear or regret or worry or all three. Sebastian had called her _my lady_ long before she had been knighted, but it meant something different, now. Lizzy inclined her head.

“Sebastian.”

“Lizzy,” said Ciel, and Lizzy caught her breath. Someone had punched him in the face; there was a cut along the line of his cheekbone, a bruise on his jawline. In spite of everything, he was in full Phantomhive regalia, silks and satins, his father’s heavy sapphire on the middle finger of his left hand. She snapped her fan shut, and curtsied.

“My lord Phantomhive,” she said, keeping her eyes on the rough stone of the platform. “I trust you’re well.”

There was a pause. Then Ciel bowed once, sharply.

“Lady Middleford.”

Lizzy clenched her fingers tight into her skirts. He’d grown since she’d last seen him. He was taller than her now; only an inch or two, maybe, but he was taller. She wondered if he’d ever imagined he would live long enough to grow that much. Aside from his face, he seemed relatively unharmed, and something wound tight in her chest loosened again. She let out a breath, watching him, and then flushed wildly. “Oh,” she said, and scrambled for her bag. _Idiot_. _Twitterpated fool._ “I—I would not have disturbed you, my lord, but I bear a message.”

“What happened to your ear?” he blurted, and when she looked up, he had reached out to touch it. He froze, looking at her, his visible eye widening; then he pulled his hand back. “Apologies. I only thought—”

“Someone shot at me this morning,” she told him. “That’s all.”

Ciel stiffened. Beside him, Sebastian went catlike—his head hunched a little deeper into his collar, and his shoulders came up, like a lion readying itself to leap.

“Who?” said Ciel, dangerously.

“None of your business,” said Lizzy, and pulled the letter free of her bag. “It was a job, Ciel. We’ve—we’ve talked about this,” she added, and it _wasn’t_ desperation she was feeling, it _wasn’t_. After everything, was he really—could he actually even think—

“Did you let him live?” Ciel asked, and folded his hands over the top of his cane. “As I recall, you don’t particularly like it when people shoot at you.”

Lizzy’s lips parted. Then she smiled, and turned so it was hidden behind her hair. “Unfortunately, I had run out of bullets.”

Ciel huffed a little. “I’ve told you to keep an extra box with you. Didn’t you remember?”

“I _did_ , only he _took it_.” She offered him the letter. “You’d best read that. It seems important.”

He didn’t take it. Instead, he just watched her for a time, as if he was searching for something. Finally, he inclined his head once, and he plucked the letter from her outstretched hand. He did not touch her fingers. “I didn’t think that Her Majesty would ever send her only female knight on courier duty.”

“Her Majesty does as she thinks best.” Lizzy curtsied again. “Apologies, my lord, but I ought to let you take your leave. I’m certain you have much to do.”

“Lizzy,” he said. Lizzy turned. Ciel tucked the letter into his doublet pocket, and licked his lips. He opened his mouth, and closed it again. “I—would you do me the honor of coming to dinner with me? At the end of the week. If you like,” he added hastily, and for an instant he was the awkward, gawky boy she remembered, all flushes and wide smiles. “I don’t—”

“Yes,” she said. Behind Ciel, Sebastian was smiling, almost fondly, at the pair of them. It was like the clock had been turned back, like the Zodiac case had never happened, like they had never boarded the _Campania._ Nostalgia hit her like a fist in the gut. “I—I think we have a lot to talk about.”

Ciel nodded. Lizzy hesitated; then she put out her right hand. To shake, she told herself, as Ciel reached forward, and brushed his fingers against hers. It was like touching sparks. Only to shake.

And it was only to shake. It still made her feel agreeably flushed.

“I will send you a note tomorrow, then,” he said, and Lizzy nodded.

“That would be best.”

They looked at each other for a moment. Then Lizzy snapped her fan open, nodded to Sebastian and to Snake, and turned away, up the platform. Paula clung close to her side, close enough that their skirts nearly tangled. Worry came off her in waves.

Lizzy could feel Ciel’s eyes on her back all the way out of the station.

* * *

Much to the chagrin of everyone involved, the season hadn’t quite ended. If there was one thing she had never quite understood about her own society, it was why people would insist on dressing up and going to ballrooms packed with people during the hottest times of year. Lizzy fanned her face with her gloved hand, wishing she could escape out one of the French doors onto the balcony. Next to her, Rebecca Beddor, all done up in red with black trim (her period of mourning for her father had been over near a year ago, but she persisted) huffed a breath.

“I-It’s v-very noisy,” she told Lizzy in a soft voice, creeping a little closer. “I don’t think Lord Forsythe is particularly happy w-with Mr. St. John.”

“Well,” said Lizzy, “Lord Forsythe should learn not to fiddle about with St. John’s younger sisters, then.”

Rebecca flushed a little, and gave Lizzy a daring smile. She’d grown, Lizzy thought approvingly; she was taller than she’d been, when Lizzy had first come haunting her door to snoop in Damian Beddor’s offices. She smiled more. She still wasn’t quite daring enough to joke in public, but she had a truly wicked sense of humor that was best suited for whispers, anyway.

“He would,” she said, “i-if they stopped throwing themselves at him quite so brazenly.”

“Rebecca Beddor, shame on you. You know the poor man can’t help himself where pretty young women are concerned. The last ball we both attended, he _pinched_ me.” Lizzy rubbed her backside in memory. “What’s been driving those two girls to fling themselves at him as if he were a lifeline I don’t know. They both could do so much better than Lord Jonathan Forsythe.”

Rebecca shrugged. She tugged her gloves up her arms again. “I-I heard that the Earl Phantomhive has returned from the north,” she said. Lizzy cocked her head.

“Oh?”

“A-And that his return coincided most particularly with the collapse of the Moray Shipping Company centered in Durham.”

“Fancy that,” said Lizzy, and took another sip of her champagne.

Rebecca sighed. “ _Lizzy_.”

“Don’t look at me, darling. I might know he’s back, but I have absolutely no notion what on earth he was doing up north. He never tells me anything, you know that as well as I do. Besides,” she added, dragging her forefinger around the rim of her champagne glass. “It’s not like I tell him anything, either.”

With another sigh, Rebecca hooked her arm through Elizabeth’s. “Come on,” she said. “I-I need to go home for the night. Womanly vapors. A-and you’re the one who brought me here, so you have to leave, too.”

“You minx,” said Lizzy, and kissed Rebecca on the cheek. “Remind me to throw you a fabulous birthday party.”

“I th-think I’ve had enough of your birthday parties, Lizzy,” Rebecca said, and Lizzy threw her head back and laughed.

Lizzy had come in a separate carriage from her parents, so after informing her mother that she would be going home early with a headache, and excusing herself to Mr. St. John, they were in the clear. Lizzy dropped Rebecca at the small town house that Rebecca, her mother, and two of her older brothers had been living in for the past four months or so, and then melted into the seat of the carriage. It was finally starting to cool, she thought, now that the sun had set. She left the carriage window open to fan her face, peeled off her gloves, and rubbed her thumb along the smooth metal of the silver-and-sapphire engagement ring, still nestled against her collarbone.

Dinner, she thought. Dinner with Ciel Phantomhive. She supposed that he had taken her seeking him out, even on business, as a sign that she was…settled, again. And indeed, didn’t it mean that? She had taken the assignment even when Phipps had offered to go in her place; she had wanted to see Ciel again, needed to, almost, in spite of everything. She had been told once that she was more than a bit mad, and she supposed it was true. If she took that leap, if she let Ciel Phantomhive walk back into her life, then she was going to be hurt for it. There was no alternative.

But if there was one thing she’d worked out for herself, in the year since they’d last truly spoken—in the year since the Director, since Theodore, since the Zodiac—it was that the pain didn’t make her love him any less. And if that made her the same as a beggar woman who kept returning to the husband who beat her, well, then she would just grit her teeth and bear it.

Elizabeth pulled her glove back on, and settled herself in.

Paula had left her windows open. Her room was only slightly less sweltering as she peeled off the ball gown and let Paula tug her nightdress firmly over her head. It was nearly one in the morning; she’d been awake for almost thirty-six hours, and her eyes felt like they’d been scooped out and replaced with glass. Lizzy bade Paula good night, and blew out the candle before settling herself on top of the blankets (it was too hot to do anything else). She was nearly asleep when something frightfully cold and wet brushed against her palm.

With a squeal, Lizzy slapped the thing away, and lunged off the bed for a weapon. There was a yowl, and a thump. A cat, she realized. She forced her hands to be still. Just a cat. Lizzy hesitated, and then crawled across the bed again to peer beneath the mattress. A pair of golden eyes glared balefully back.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “You startled me.” She rubbed her fingers together, the way she’d seen children do out on the street to attract alley cats. “Come out?”

The cat growled. Then, slowly, it leaned forward, and touched its nose to Lizzy’s fingertips. It was a thin little thing, Lizzy realized, as she scooped it up in her arms to settle it in her lap. Not skinny, but lithe, with short bluish-gray fur. It was also collared with expensive braided brocade. She scratched under its chin. “Did you wander off, little one? You can’t stay here. My brother will start sneezing.”

The cat sniffed, loudly, and nudged its head into her palm again. There was a scrap of paper woven into its collar. Lizzy’s fingers went still. Her skin prickled, as if someone had just drawn a long-nailed finger up her spine. She tugged the note free. The paper was cheap and cottony, and there was a dark smear of something that smelled like copper on the bottom right-hand corner.

_Defend the key. I leave Ran-Mao in your care._

It wasn’t signed. She knew the handwriting. Lizzy closed her hand tight around the paper, and kicked her blankets off. “Paula?” Nothing. Silence. “Paula!”

She heard footsteps. Paula, her hair loose, a shawl hooked around her shoulders, peered into Lizzy’s bedroom. "Miss Elizabeth? What—”

“Something’s happened to Lau,” said Lizzy, and seized the hem of her nightdress, tugging it up over her head in one fluid motion. “I need my shoes, please. And clothes. And my sword.”

“Lau?” Paula repeated, fuzzily. Then she focused on the bed. “Miss Lizzy, why do you have a cat? I thought Master Edward was allergic—”

“ _Paula_!” She thought of the note again, of the smear of blood. “He’s hurt, I think. I have to go _—_ ”

“Go where? At this time of night? Miss Lizzy—”

Lizzy fought off the urge to shriek. She turned. “Paula. Listen to me. Lau is many things, but most importantly, he’s my friend, and I wouldn’t be a friend to him if I didn’t try to find him.” She seized a pair of Edward’s trousers and yanked them on. “I need to understand what’s going on, and I can’t do that from here—I need you to wake Michael and send him to Ciel’s, tell him what’s happened, if he doesn’t already know. I’m going to find Ran-Mao. She’ll have some idea of what’s happened—”

“You don’t have to go looking,” said a clipped, accented little voice.

Lizzy seized a knife from beneath her desk and whipped around. There was no one else in the room; no shadow, nowhere for Ran-Mao to hide. She glanced up at the ceiling, but no, nothing there either. Then the cat licked its paw, swiped at its whiskers, and Lizzy saw clearly the flash of the pink tongue, the flicker of teeth, as it said, “I’m already here.”

Paula screamed.


	2. His Partner, Bamboozled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phipps hummed under his breath, and reached forward to collect a handful of the gears and springs from the back of the mantelpiece clock.
> 
> “This was a gift to Her Majesty from the King of Sweden, you know.”
> 
> Felicity bared her teeth. “Well, tell him I’m _so_ sorry.”

Lizzy lunged forward and clapped her hand over Paula’s mouth before more than a whimper could escape her lips. It was neither the time nor the place for banshee shrieks, since Edward was both in the house and asleep a few rooms down. The cat on the bed licked her paw twice more, and then crouched down on the bedspread, its tail flicking back and forth. Lizzy searched Paula’s eyes until she was certain Paula wasn’t going to scream, and then backed away to turn up the lamp. “Shut the curtains,” she said, and Paula blinked twice before snapping to, tugging the window closed for good measure. Finally, once all was seen to, Lizzy crept closer to the bed, settling herself on the end of it, and peered at the cat.

“Ran-Mao,” she said. The cat’s ears flicked back and then forward again.

“Yes.”

Lizzy stared at the cat for a long moment. _Ran-Mao_. 藍貓. Blue cat. _How on earth_ , she thought, and nearly pinched herself. Then she did pinch herself, just to make certain this wasn’t a dream. She thought of Snake, then, the patches of scales on his skin, and the human Ran-Mao’s large yellowy eyes.

Cat’s eyes.

“Are you a shapeshifter?” she asked after a moment, and the cat threw its head back and laughed.

“Are you? Lady Knight, angel-touched, demon-cursed.”

Lizzy flinched. The cat stood, and slunk its way across the bed to nudge its nose hard into her hand. She thought she might have felt the touch of teeth. “I am both,” said the cat, “and also neither, but the name Ran-Mao will do as well as any other. It was not chosen by a particularly creative person, but then again, they were no more than a child at the time, and so I have long since forgiven them for their lack of initiative.” It bared its teeth again. “If you wish, you might give me a name yourself. I would welcome it, in fact. Of course, I would need to taste your blood first.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Lizzy saw Paula grope for and sink into a chair, her face white as milk.

“I think a new name is—quite out of the question, at the moment.” Lizzy lifted her hand, and then, tentatively, stroked two fingertips down the cat’s spine. It arched, and its eyes closed. “But I will let you know if that ever—changes.”

“Hmm.” The cat—somehow, she couldn’t quite think of it as Ran-Mao, not yet—settled back on its haunches, peering up at her. “Considerate, if a bit presumptive. You assume I will accept the name you give me, when you offer it.”

Yes, definitely a cat. Lizzy frowned a little, but didn’t push the subject. “Can you tell me what happened to Lau?”

The cat’s eyes narrowed, and under Lizzy’s hand, its fur lifted. “Taken,” it spat. “Beaten. Struck. I was prevented from assisting in their deserved end.”

“They held you back?” Lizzy blinked. Ran-Mao was the strongest human—well, she amended, studying the cat, perhaps not _human_ —person she’d ever seen, aside, perhaps, from Sebastian. If there were people on this earth who could hold her back—

“I was ordered to stay back,” said the cat. It closed its eyes again, and grumbled in what sounded like Chinese, but no Mandarin Lizzy had ever heard. “And to attend to you.”

“To me?” Lizzy caught Paula’s eye again. “But—why me? What do I—”

 _Defend the key_ , the note had said. The attack was— “This is about the _key_?”

The cat’s tail twitched, but it closed its eyes and said nothing. Considering what Lizzy knew of cats, that in and of itself was answer enough, she thought. She hesitated, and then scooped the cat up in her arms—it didn’t protest, even nudged its nose up into her throat—and began to stroke it, quietly considering.

“You don’t know where they took him?” she asked, and the cat’s whiskers twitched.

“I know their scent. I can find them if I choose.”

“Do you know what they intend to do?” Silence again. She tried something else. “What does the key open, that someone would want it so badly?”

“A chest of old letters,” said the cat, its whiskers twitching again. “Among other things. I will not betray his secrets.”

That was…surprisingly loyal, for a cat. Considerably unhelpful. But loyal, and even somewhat touching. Lizzy reached up to her throat and played with the key there, the one that hung on the same chain as Ciel’s ring. After a moment, she looked up at Paula, who was still staring as if she’d seen a ghost. “Can I have a pen and some paper please, Paula? And I’m sorry to have to wake Michael, but I must send word to Ciel as soon as possible that his—his pet dealer has gone astray, and I’m afraid that you and Michael are the only ones I trust to do it.”

The cat tensed in her arms for a moment, but then relaxed. Paula gulped hard, and then stood again, holding herself upright with the chair as she nodded. “Of course, Miss Lizzy,” she said, and Lizzy gave her as wide a smile as she dared, with a—shapeshifter? Cat monster? A demon, like Sebastian?—nestled so close against her jugular.

“Thank you, Paula,” she said. Paula gave her one curtsy, and then vanished out the door, closing it quietly behind her. Lizzy waited until her bare footsteps had vanished down the hall towards the servants’ quarters before she looked down at the cat in her arms. The cat looked back up at her with narrowed yellow eyes, and Lizzy had the strangest sense that the beast was laughing at her.

“I have a thousand questions, but there are only a few that are important. Will you hear them?”

The cat inclined its head once, and tugged itself free of Lizzy’s hands to settle itself in her lap. Lizzy drew a breath and let it out, looking at it. Small. Slender. Lithe. Muscular, for a cat, but not obviously so. It licked its lips as it looked at her, and she hoped it was in consideration and not temptation. Lizzy swallowed, and then said, “Do you lie?”

“Sometimes,” the cat answered easily, and licked one paw to drag over its whiskers again. “But not to those that I owe trust.”

“Am I one of those?”

The cat mused over that for a time. Then it said, “I have been given into your care.”

“That’s not an answer.”

The cat gave her a look that said _It’s as much of a one as you’re going to get_ , and swiped a paw over its eye. Lizzy let it go.

“Are you like Sebastian?”

The cat snorted. “No. At least, nothing so crass as that.” It should have sounded disgusted, Lizzy thought, but instead it was only thoughtful. “I don’t consume such petty things as souls, and even if I did, I would not be nearly so obvious about it.”

Her stomach dropped through the floor. “What do you…consume, then?”

The cat hooked its claws into Lizzy’s dressing gown. “Information. Entertainment.” It paused. “Secrets, I suppose. There are very many in this realm of yours. The very air is lousy with them. My compatriot finds me all I could wish for.”

“And in return you’re his…bodyguard?”

“Bodyguard. Companion.” The cat closed its eyes. “Occasionally I kill for him. He does not make me do it often. He knows I find it distasteful.”

Lizzy swallowed. “But he does make you.”

“I agreed willingly to the comradeship. It has never been a question of force. Besides, worse has been done by and to me in the past. I do not quibble over worthless lives.” The cat sighed, and then curled into a tight ball on Lizzy’s lap, settling with its head on her knee. “Are you finished? It has been a long time since I slept.”

“Why did you come to me?” Lizzy asked. “You could have gone to Ciel. To—well, to anyone else, really. Why me? Did Lau ask you to? What does he want me to do?”

“I am in your care.”

“I don’t understand what that means.”

“I am in your care,” said the cat again, and then tucked its head onto its paws. “All that you request, I will endeavor to accomplish.”

Lizzy glanced up at the door, where Paula had disappeared, where beyond her brother slept. Her brother, with his tremendous allergy to cat fur. She hesitated. “Could you become human again, if you liked?”

“If you wish.” The cat’s tail flicked. “I will not have the same powers of speech in human form. It is…restrictive.” It cracked an eye and looked up at her, and with a jolt Lizzy realized that the voice was female. The _cat_ was female. _Of course it is. It’s Ran-Mao._ “You may recall, I do not speak much when I am two-legged. The human girl…she does not speak at all.”

Frowning, Lizzy nodded. _Both_ , the cat had said, _but also neither_. So even in that, different from Sebastian. “You—you _are_ good, aren’t you? You’re not—”

 _Like Sebastian_. Something evil. Something wrong. ( _But was Sebastian fully evil_? Something whispered inside her, creeping like ivy. _Was he wholly wrong? Or was he just another sort of existence, another kind of_ —she forced the thought away.) The cat dug her claws into Lizzy’s legs.

“I am in your care,” she said, in a slurring voice. “I am afraid I must sleep now. I eat fish, and also raw egg. And milk, and pork. But nothing else touched by human hands.”

And with that, the cat was asleep. Lizzy lifted her hands, and then lowered them again, setting her palm lightly against the cat’s back. Not even a whisker twitched, so she settled into a smooth stroking rhythm, trying to feel out a difference. The cat was just that, in sleep—a cat, with a cat’s fur and a cat’s ears and a cat’s tendency to twitch at the paws during a very interesting dream. But not a cat. A bound spirit, maybe. Like Sebastian, but…not.

She wrote the note out when Paula returned, only a few lines— _Lau missing. Ran-Mao with me. When can we meet?_ —and then folded it up, asking in a quiet voice for it to be sealed with her official mark and for a bowl of milk and fish to be brought up to her room. Paula, who was staring at the cat as if she were a bomb about to go off, nodded, and, after turning down the lamp, returned to her husband’s rooms for the night. Lizzy settled herself back against the pillows, ignoring the little grumbling noises the cat made at being moved, and stared up at the ceiling until dawn began to break.

She did not sleep. She had, after all, an awful lot to think about.

.

.

.

It was nearly one in the morning when the message arrived, which would have been problematic had Ciel actually gone to bed. In all actuality, he hadn’t noticed what time it was, just that he looked up to find that it was dark, the curtains had tugged shut, the clock on the mantel read twelve-fifty-eight, and that Sebastian was beside him wearing his usual blank-faced smile, a silver tray balanced on one fingertip. “A message, my lord,” he said, and bowed. Ciel rubbed his eyes—he had to get new lamps for this room, he felt as though someone had poured sand into his skull—and then took the letter, frowning at it. The insignia on the back was one he wouldn’t have recognized a year ago, crossed sabers tied together with string, but now…he popped the wax. “When did this come in?”

“Only moments ago, my lord.” Sebastian pursed his lips just slightly, eyelashes caressing his cheek. “Brought by the stableman, Michael. He awaits a response.”

Curiouser and curiouser. Ciel opened the envelope, and tugged free the letter. Well, it was more of a note, really, only a few scrawled lines, ink spattering the edges. _Barely blotted_ , his brain whispered, _written in haste, not even enough time to sign it—but enough to stamp with the insignia of the Queen’s Lady Knight? Business, then, and important business, to disturb you so late at night_ —

 _Shut up_ , he told his brain, and then he read the note. Ciel frowned, and then read it again. It was only on the third pass-over that he blinked, and stood. Sebastian stood and waited, his eyes half-lidded, considering. “My lord?”

 _Lizzy_ , he thought. Lizzy and Lau. Lau had been a guest in his parents’ house when he’d been a child, as had Lizzy, and he knew that they had to have met at parties or some such since then—had to have, since Lau delighted so much in foolish japes, especially ones that were intended to drive Ciel mad—but to have known each other well enough to leave Ran-Mao in Lizzy’s care…He chewed the inside of his cheek, thoughtfully, and then tossed the letter in the fire.

(Not without peeling away the wax seal first, but he had his back turned so Sebastian couldn’t see that part.)

“It appears that someone has decided to borrow my things without permission,” Ciel said, and thankfully his voice did _not_ waver. Not in the slightest. Lau was a profound irritation, a phenomenal blackguard, an opium dealer, Ciel’s primary link to the black market, and—though he was loathe to admit it—the most skilled mahjong player that Ciel had ever met in his life. And he was also, apparently, a primary ally of one Elizabeth Middleford, Lady Knight of the Realm, and he cursed himself, because _somehow_ this had slipped by his notice.

Suddenly a lot more things made sense about Lizzy and her sudden leaps in knowledge. He was going to be having a very stern talk with Lau before long.

“What sort of borrowing, my lord?” asked Sebastian. Ciel tugged his jacket off the back of his chair, and allowed Sebastian to hand him into it, tugging at his cufflinks absently.

“The sort that might soon progress to outright larceny if not nipped in the bud immediately.” And could end in blood if not done so in a prompt and clinical fashion. There was a funny cold clutching feeling tugging at the base of his throat, as if the fingers of the dead had reached in and begun to squeeze. It wasn’t as if he was truly worried for Lau—though it was quite clear that Lizzy was; she would never have forgotten to sign if she weren’t, would never have sent him a late-night invitation if she weren’t panicked—but he was, possibly, concerned. Perhaps slightly unsettled by the idea that someone had snatched Lau out from under his nose, and he had no clue as to why. He buttoned his coat himself, and glanced at Sebastian. “Tell me, Sebastian, what interest would certain elements have in a Chinese merchant with open ties to the Queen’s Watchdog?”

Sebastian’s eyes flickered. “That would depend upon the elements, my lord.”

“Elements who have been daring enough to shanghai—” he grimaced “—forgive the pun, but with enough interest to shanghai said opium dealer in the dead of night, even when faced with his rather formidable bodyguard.”

“Ah.” Sebastian set the letter tray upon the edge of the desk, prodding it so it wouldn’t be knocked over. “And the bodyguard, my lord? Dead?”

“In the custody of a rather well-known knight, who has equal if not higher levels of interest in the whole affair.”

Sebastian inclined his head once, and folded his hands neatly behind his back. “What are your orders, my lord?”

“Tell Michael that I will attend to the Lady Elizabeth in the morning,” said Ciel, smoothing out the wrinkles in his jacket. “At eight o’clock, no later.”

“And yourself, my lord?”

“We,” said Ciel, baring his teeth in a smile, “are going to Chinatown.”

Sebastian bowed, and braced one gloved hand over his heart. “As my lord wishes.”

.

.

.

Her room smelled like strawberries again.

Felicity Parker dropped her screwdriver onto her worktable, and swore under her breath. She could always tell when the Great Queen Fusspot was sending someone to check up on her, because there was always a basket of apology-strawberries left somewhere in her house first. The fact that she not only disliked but was violently allergic to strawberries—a fact she made known by tossing each and every batch at the heads of the guards by her door—was irrelevant, it seemed, in the wake of Victoria’s stubbornness.

The rap came at her door in the thirty seconds after she realized what she was smelling. Felicity picked up her screwdriver again, and bent her head over the back of the clock. “Go _away_.”

“I bear a message from the Queen,” came a voice. It was Phipps. The Yorkshire under his plummy Oxbridge was unmistakable. “And from others.”

“Tell Grey he can take a leap,” said Felicity, and twisted her screwdriver viciously into a mechanism. It popped, and the gears she needed spilled out of the back of the mantelpiece clock. “I don’t want to know a damn thing about what he thinks of my machines.”

“Not from Grey,” said Phipps through the door. There was a pause. She had the feeling he was leaning his forehead against the door like a damn puppy-dog. He did that, and he thought she didn’t know it but she did, and it was like a dagger to the gut with how guilty it made her feel. Theo had done that. “Let me in?”

Felicity pawed through the gears, found the one she’d been searching for—a tiny thing, only about the size of her pinky fingernail—and then slotted it into the back of her animatronic hummingbird, waiting until the satisfying _click_ of a puzzle being solved. Then she heaved herself off of the bench and went to the door, undoing the three locks and throwing it open. Phipps rocked back onto his heels, and sure enough, by his feet was the wretched covered basket of wretched strawberries.

“You take that away with you,” she snarled, and turned her back on him, stalking back into her workroom. “I don’t know why she keeps sending them. I hate the damn things.”

“That and they make you swell up like a balloon,” said Phipps airily, and kicked the door shut behind him. Felicity fought off the urge to glare at him, and tossed her braid back over her shoulder, swinging her metal leg over the edge of the bench.

“Does that mean she keeps sending them to me as a Socrates note? _Dear Felicity, here is the mechanism of your demise, please take it before I grow tired of you and decide to have you executed properly._ ” She picked up her hooked seam needle, the only thing she had been able to finagle small enough to deal with the ins and outs of the hummingbird’s innards, and began prodding at the mixed-up gears. “I’ll keep that in mind for when I finally get fed up with building trinkets for her grandchildren and she tries to force me to make something really dangerous.”

Phipps swung the free chair around and then straddled it, hooking his arms over the back. He rested his chin on his hands. “She wouldn’t _force_ you to do anything, Miss Parker. She is simply expecting a return on her considerable investment.”

“Because to a woman that rules more than half the known world, a single house on the outskirts of London and half-a-dozen guards to make sure I don’t run away in the dead of night is a considerable investment.” Something clicked inside the hummingbird, and Felicity picked up her jeweler’s glasses, peering inside it. The gears were finally in place. Satisfied, she snapped the thing’s back closed and then grabbed the wind-up key, slotting it into the appropriate hole. “To be honest I’m still not sure if the only reason she sent that damn earl after—after us was to get her hands on _me_.”

“Not entirely,” said Phipps, “but at least partially it was, yes.” His eyes crinkled, even though he didn’t smile. “Part of her investment.”

“Shut up.” She twisted the key until it caught, and then pulled it free of the hummingbird’s back, and waited. After a long moment, the bird came to life in her hand, prescripted motions and shivering wings. Nothing like the automata of the Zodiac, or even her Scarabs and her Spiders, but beautiful nonetheless. She watched it buzz around the room for a minute or two, and then winced when it ran headfirst into a wall. “Damn. It wasn’t supposed to do that.”

She went to stand, but Phipps beat her to it, scooping the metal hummingbird up in one hand and studying it for a moment. It jerked spastically a few times, and then went still, and Felicity groaned and snatched it from him. “She keeps telling me not to make my living machines, but what else am I supposed to do? I ask you. It gets—”

Felicity bit her tongue, and ducked her head. What the hell was she supposed to say, anyway? That it was getting damn lonely in this little house in the middle of nowhere, no brother, no angel, no Zodiac, no machines? That the only time she actually spoke was when Phipps showed his stupid face, and he only came once a week, less if something was happening out there in the big wide world. The other guards were scared of her, of her glass eye and her metal limbs and her scars, of the flashes and bangs that came out of her workroom and her basement late at night. The younger ones called her a witch completely without irony, and it would have made her laugh if she hadn’t thought they were a little more than half-right. She swore under her breath, and then opened up the back of the hummingbird again, going back to work with her seam needle. Phipps watched her do it for a minute or two, and then settled back into his chair, seemingly content to observe.

“What’s the message?” Felicity asked finally, once the gears were back in place (again). Phipps hummed under his breath, and reached forward to collect a handful of the gears and springs from the back of the mantelpiece clock.

“This was a gift to Her Majesty from the King of Sweden, you know.”

Felicity bared her teeth. “Well, tell him I’m _so_ sorry.”

His lips twitched a little, and he turned over a gear between his fingers. “Her Majesty has expressed an interest in a number of things—life-sized doubles, birds with spying capabilities, poisonous insects—”

“All of which I can’t _make_ without using my blood, which you _know_.” Felicity rubbed the scars on her human wrist, frustrated. “Which for some goddamn reason is still _in my body_. And even if she _let_ me cut myself up—which she _doesn’t_ —I’d not make anything like that for her if she offered to buy me the entirety of London. Or more.”

“A fact which you have expressed most pithily on more than one occasion,” said Phipps, with a serene, moonish look, as if he was quite content with this idea.

“Then what the hell are you doing here, closet butler?”

“Her Majesty has indicated that she would be willing to…experiment. She is aware of your…” He seemed to be trying to come up with a word that wasn’t a synonym of _disease._ “Situation, and would not be expressly adverse to…uncovering the full extent of it. As it were.”

Felicity drew her hands into her lap, and clenched them hard into fists. “You’re _not_ ,” she snarled, “experimentin’ on me, Brit.”

Phipps gave her a flat look. “We would never infringe upon the rights of a willing guest of Her Majesty by subjecting her to experimentation.”

“A guest? Really?” She flashed him her wrist, where there were still marks from the chains she’d been forced into. “What about these?”

He winced at the sight of them, and closed his eyes. The guilt hit her again, sudden, piercing, and Fee turned to stare out the window. Phipps had been furious when he’d come out to this house the first time and found her bound in the back bedroom, raving, furious. The withdrawal from angel’s blood had been horrid and filthy, and she’d gone raving so many times the guards had been terrified she’d slit her own throat. She still couldn’t remember much of those days, but she had the distinct impression from what little she _could_ remember that Charles Phipps, her cupboard butler, was the only reason she was still breathing. ‘Unsettled’ was the only term she could come up with to apply to _that_ notion. She folded her hands in her lap again.

“It will not happen again,” Phipps said, his voice hard and quiet. Felicity glanced at him through her bangs, and rubbed the scar on her wrist from where she’d taken shattered glass to it.

“I believe you,” she said, and looked at the grain of the table. “Much as I hate to admit it. Why the change of heart?”

Phipps shook himself out of melancholia. “A number of things. Her Majesty is aging, and there are a number of people who would like very much to see her out of the way sooner rather than later. It is more for self-defense than any sort of…militaristic intent.”

“You say that _now_.”

“I swear to you on my mother’s life, your creations will not be used for anything other than the express intent you put into them,” said Phipps. Felicity couldn’t quite meet his eyes. “Not as long as I am alive.”

“Pretty words, English.”

“More than that, Miss Parker. A promise.” The corner of his mouth lifted. “One I can seal in blood, if you prefer.”

“Ugh, no. Don’t bleed on my blueprints.” Felicity hesitated, and then picked up the hummingbird again, turning its little body over in her hands. The eyes were made of glass, of course, but if she tried very, _very_ hard…

No. She closed her hand over it. She’d sworn not to do this again. She’d _sworn_ … “You don’t understand,” Felicity said, and to her horror her voice cracked a little. “I’m not her anymore. I’m not—I’m not the inventor who put you in her cupboard. I’m just…”

 _Brother-killer,_ something hissed. _Patricidal maniac. Abomination. Monster._ She closed her eyes, and then opened them again, staring at the fresh red roses outside of her workroom window. She’d left it open to catch the scent, but for some reason the air was dry as bone.

“You’re you,” said Phipps. “That’s all you’ve ever been.”

Felicity laughed. It sounded wet. “Don’t lie to me, Phipps. And don’t lie to yourself. You know _precisely_ what I am.”

“A woman who was broken,” said Phipps, “and rebuilt herself from the ground up.”

“A stupid girl,” she threw back at him, tossing the hummingbird to the table, “who killed everyone she ever loved because—because she was brainwashed and toxic and _horrible_.”

“And who rose above that and chose to free herself in spite of everything.”

“I wanted to _die_ ,” she snarled at him, and fought the urge to stab him through the hand with her screwdriver. She could do it. It would be easy. His hand was _right there_. He gave her a look that meant he knew _precisely_ what she’d thought, and then set both his hands on the table, an invitation, a dare.

“You chose,” he said, “to _live_.”

She scoffed, and glared at the wall. “I regret it almost every day.”

“But you keep living.” Phipps cocked his head to one side. “Doesn’t that mean something?”

“That I’m a coward, maybe.” She closed her eyes. “Or that I’m stupid. Haven’t decided.”

“Either way it means you’re stronger than you give yourself credit for.” He leaned back, away from his chair, and looked at nothing for a moment. “Regardless of what you seem to think.”

Felicity picked up the remnants of the clock, and began to rebuild the inside. The original clockmaker had had an excess of gears. She would be able to get it working again faster, and keeping better time, too, without half the gloss in here. _Kings,_ she thought sourly, and tossed a spring to the floor. _Kings and queens and the whole goddamn royal class of Europe. Idiocy._ “You said you had another message?”

Phipps paused. The silence went long enough that Felicity finally looked up, and caught him frowning. She set down her screwdriver. “Tell me,” she said, “or I’ll take off both your kneecaps.”

Phipps winced, just in the spirit of the thing, and then gave her a long, considering look. For a moment, she thought he’d just shrug. Then he licked his lips. “I saw Elizabeth Middleford yesterday. She—she said that if you were up to it, she wanted me to tell you hello.”

Her stomach bottomed out. _Bitch_ , the hissing voice seethed. _Fork-tongued traitorous whoring bitch_. Then she thought of Theodore, and the soft glow of him when he thought no one had noticed him looking at Lizzy Middleford, and her throat closed up. She looked down at her hands again, and went back to mending the clock. Lizzy Middleford, who had spared her life in spite of everything. Lizzy Middleford, the woman who her brother had chosen, who he’d worked with to save Felicity’s life. She shouldn’t have been worried about Felicity. Not now. Not after everything.

Felicity looked down at the hummingbird, and decided.

“Give me your boot-knife.”

Phipps’ eyes widened, but bless him, he obeyed without question. Felicity flipped the knife in her metal hand a few times—nice weight, decent heft, sharp blade—and then rolled the hummingbird onto its front, opening the hidden catch in the back to expose the gears. Then with the tip of the bootknife, she pricked her thumb, and let three drops of blood fall into the mechanism of the hummingbird.

It happened the way it always had happened, when she’d been the Director’s daughter. There was a fading of color from the world, a blackening around the edges. Under her feet, something stirred. She was the blood, the machine was inside her, she could feel it moving and clicking and _growing_ , and something fractured and cracked. Her vision broke, and then she was herself again. Felicity let out a shuddering, gasping breath, and realized she’d gripped the edge of the table so hard with her metal hand that she’d fractured the wood. Phipps was watching her with wide eyes, his face pale and grey. Felicity forced herself to smile, just a bit, and then opened her flesh hand.

The hummingbird shook itself out, spread its wings, and hopped onto her finger when she prompted. Its eyes were just chips of bottle-green glass, its wings lacking the vibrancy of the real thing, but it looked at her with trust and with joy, and Felicity swallowed. Then she offered it to Phipps.

“Give that to her,” she said, in a hoarse voice. “To Lady Middleford, not your _blasted_ queen. She can do what she likes with it. I don’t want to know. Don’t tell me. And I won’t see her,” she added. “Not ever. I _won’t_.”

Phipps hesitated. Then he reached out, and accepted the hummingbird as it moved from her fingers to his. “I understand.”

Felicity stood, and left the room before she could burst into stupid tears.

.

.

.

The cat—Ran-Mao, Lizzy decided finally, it only made sense to call the cat by the only name she knew—let her up at about seven in the morning, so Lizzy had just enough time for a wash and a mug or three of coffee before there was a sharp knock on the back door. Ran-Mao seemed to have decided that the best possible place to perch was on Lizzy’s shoulders, and the prickle of cat fur around the back of her neck (as Ran-Mao draped herself around her throat like a stole or a shawl) was making her skin quiver as Lizzy went over the morning’s post. Paula was avoiding her, and Lizzy was fairly sure it had everything to do with the fact that Ran-Mao was whispering the answers to the daily crossword puzzle into her ear in a constant stream of condescending sadism. Every time Lizzy didn’t quite catch a word, she received a cold nose in the ear for her trouble.

“No,” said Ran-Mao, just as the back doorbell rang. “No, _acid_ , not _base_. Did you never take chemistry?”

“No,” said Lizzy sweetly, fighting the urge to seize the cat and toss it into the fireplace. “Just poisons.”

“Considering what can be done to the body with sulfuric acid, I would have thought they’d be included—”

“Miss Lizzy,” said Dawson from the doorway, ducking into a little curtsy. Lizzy could only hope she hadn’t heard Ran-Mao muttering. “My lord the Earl Phantomhive for you. He’s waiting in the drawing room.”

Lizzy glanced at the back door (which rang again, rather insistently) and then said, “Show him in here, will you? I have to finish the morning accounts, and he’s seen the kitchen before.”

Dawson looked politely aghast at the notion of anyone of Blood sitting in the kitchen, but at that very moment the door opened, and Ciel (looking distinctly scruffy, but still very Blooded in his very expensive suit) came through, Sebastian at his heel. Dawson’s look of horror grew even deeper, until Lizzy cleared her throat and said, “Yes, well, I think he found the drawing room not quite to his liking. You can go, Dawson.”

Paula, in the corner, was smothering a set of rather hysterical giggles. Lizzy was beginning to wonder if it might not be her _mother_ who was sending all of these housekeepers’ and ladies’ maids on their merry way, but just the general insanity of serving a family like the Middlefords.

Then she looked up and saw Ciel watching her, and her breathing caught. She cleared her throat, and took a rather hasty gulp of tea to cover it. “What did you do, sneak out through the drawing room window? She seemed rather insistent that you were in there.”

“No. Out the front door and around the back.” Ciel gave the cat a long and lingering look, and then sat down across from her. Lizzy (who was most certainly not doing accounts, but rather marking out sections on a map where Lau might be, according to Ran-Mao) folded her newspaper (which had been an excuse to get Ran-Mao to shut up about opium addiction) and scratched the cat idly behind the ears. “That’s new.”

“A gift,” said Lizzy. “She arrived very recently. Hello, Sebastian,” she added, who was giving Ran-Mao a look as if he wanted to eat her. Or cuddle her. Possibly both. It was a very strange expression, considering the man who was wearing it. He jerked, and looked at her very quickly.

“Good morning, my lady Middleford.” The hesitation would have been unnoticeable, if she hadn’t been looking for it. “You look well.”

“That’s good, because I didn’t sleep, and I’ve been living mostly off of tea and coffee.”

Ciel frowned, just slightly. His bruised cheek still looked horrid, purple and dark, dark blue; she found herself lifting her hand to touch it before she realized what she was doing, and Lizzy bit her lip and blushed. “Good morning, my lord Phantomhive.”

Ciel caught her eye, and hten looked away again. Then, clearing his throat, he stood, and came around the table. Lizzy nearly shot out of her seat in a panic, but he simply lifted her hand and pressed the back of it to his lips, just slightly. “My lady Middleford,” he said, and all the skin on her body went flush with heat. He was blushing too, just slightly; she could see it in his ears. Then he lifted his head, and a truly wicked little smile was playing around his lips. “Sending late-night messages? Very forward of you.”

“Don’t be pert,” she said, and fought off the urge to kick him in the shin. She gestured to the chair beside her, and he took it without a word, still smirking at her like an insufferable—thing. “You know I wouldn’t have if it weren’t urgent, and since it’s—since it’s Lau, I thought you would have liked to know. What have you found?”

Ciel’s eyebrows lifted. His lips twitched. “You speak as if you think we’ve actually learned something.”

“You wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t,” said Lizzy tartly, and glanced down at her map of London again. This was one of her lesser copies, one that didn’t show _every_ alleyway or cul-de-sac, but at least it was serviceable, and considering what she was using it for, she didn’t think it needed much more than what it had to offer. “Nor Sebastian, either.”

She reached up to play with the ring at her throat, and then forced her hand down to the table again. She needed to stop doing that. It was a very bad, very telling habit, and she _would not_ do it in front of Ciel. She would _not_. Beside her, Ciel smiled, and folded his hands neatly on the wood. She was very glad that Mrs. Moore, the cook, wasn’t here to see the signet ring on his finger touching her cutting boards. “Considering the amount of sleep afforded to the pair of us last night, I’m afraid we have very little to show for it. We were in Limehouse from midnight until an hour ago, and found no one who could or would dare tell us much about what happened at the Kunlun Company offices late last night.”

Lizzy thought of the torn note that had been woven into Ran-Mao’s collar, the snip of paper that had been spattered with blood. He’d been wounded when he’d sent Ran-Mao away from him, which would have meant—“Did you visit the offices?”

The glow in Ciel’s eyes made the hair prickle all the way up her spine. Lizzy ducked her head like a pleased schoolgirl. “Significant amounts of blood, from multiple parties. Three dead men. An office that had been ransacked, seemingly in rage.” He eyed Ran-Mao the cat again, thoughtfully—she was currently staring at Sebastian, and Lizzy thought she might feel cat fur fluffing up against the back of her neck—and then said, “We also found this.”

He reached into his waistcoat pocket and drew forth a ring. It was large, heavy, a signet ring, but not of any crest she recognized; it was a compass rose, with little chips of ruby at each cardinal direction. Lizzy picked it up, and weighed it in her hand. Heavy silver, decent craftsmanship (though the actual sigil was sloppy, blurring at the edges). Not something a man would give away to any rough on the street. “Pickpockets?” she said after a moment, and closed her hand around the ring. Ciel shook his head once, and glanced up at Sebastian.

“It was found on a necklace, my lady Elizabeth, not any sort of secret pocket.” Sebastian searched her face for a moment, and then looked back at Ciel. They seemed to have a short, silent conversation before he drew out a notebook from beneath his coat, and opened it to the final page. “The sigil is not known to any current registry of lords of England, but the maker’s mark on the interior curve says that it was crafted within the last ten years, by a jeweler whose offices were recently closed. Indications from his neighbors point towards a gravesite in one of the pauper’s yards, but the jeweler’s son recently moved away from the City towards Sussex. Specifically, Hastings.”

“Hastings?” she frowned. “On the Channel? You’re not serious. That’s miles away.”

“But also a premiere dock,” said Sebastian. “And an easy enough place to hire a private fishing craft or ferry to the Continent, if one was generous.”

“And you say that you didn’t find much,” said Lizzy, something inside her fizzing like good champagne. If this was how Ciel and Sebastian usually worked…well, she could get used to a thing like this. “We don’t know that they’ve gone to Hastings for certain, though. The jeweler could just have moved away.”

“Very true. Which is why we found a gentleman who lived near Kunlun Company who might know very well where Lau has gone.” Ciel glanced at her, and then at the cat, and then at her again. Then his eyes darkened, just slightly, and Ciel coughed before looking away from her. Lizzy realized quite suddenly that she was wearing an open-collared summer gown, and that he could see both the ring and the key lying bold as brass against her collarbone. She swallowed hard, and hated the way her ears were burning. “I thought that you would like to come along, considering you and Lau seem to have been…working together recently. Where’s Ran-Mao?”

Lizzy was about to respond when Ran-Mao shoved her nose into Lizzy’s ear, and sank her teeth into the lobe. Lizzy squealed, and whacked at the cat without thinking about it, but Ran-Mao was already far out of reach—she bolted out of range of Sebastian (who was watching her with distinctly hungry eyes) and far away from Lizzy, darting past Paula, up the stairs, and out of sight. Lizzy swore under her breath, and went digging around for a handkerchief when her fingertips came away bloody. Ciel offered her one without comment. She thought he might have been struggling to hold back laughter.

“I thought Edward was allergic.”

“Special breed,” she lied, and held the handkerchief to her bloody ear. “Doesn’t shed. Can we go, please?”

“Where’s Ran-Mao? We thought she might like to come, considering.”

There was a mowling sound from upstairs, and then, in quick succession, a wild catlike screech, a tremendous crash, and a truly impressive string of curse-words. Apparently, Edward had found the cat.

“Sleeping,” Lizzy said. She seized her parasol. “Let’s go.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for some truly amazing reviews! I'm sorry it took so long for me to update, but after a case of SIDS in my family, a number of personal illnesses, psychological issues, family emergencies, and work stuff, I have had almost no time AT ALL to write. I don't know when it will lighten up, either; things have been hard. You can be sure, though, that RM is constantly on my mind even when I'm not able to write a word (damn you, writer's block) and that it won't be abandoned. I would never leave you guys in the lurch like that.
> 
> My only request is that as much as you love this story, and as much as I love the fact that you all love it, please do not PM me (here, or on Tumblr, or on Twitter, or on FB, or anywhere else) as to the upload date of the next chapter. It is singularly unhelpful considering everything that I have going on IRL right now, and since I am fighting through a lot of writer's block, every ask in that regard makes me feel guilty. The guilt feeds into the block, and makes it worse. So, negative cycle. Not that I don't love knowing how eager you are for the next chapter, but...patience, young Padawans. 
> 
> Speaking of, you can find me on Tumblr, Twitter, and FB! My Twitter handle is @shuofthewind, my FB name is Shu of the Wind, and my Tumblr UN shu-of-the-wind. I'd love to hear from you guys!
> 
> Also, unbeta'ed, sorry for any spelling or grammar errors. I'll check it again later.


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